


An Exile Of My Own

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four minutes stretches out over many years for John Watson. Season 3 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exile Of My Own

They sent him away. 

They sent him away to die.

I am the catalyst. I am the beginning and the end of Sherlock's moment in the sun.

I am the reason he's going to die a hundred deaths. 

Over and over. 

Again. 

For me. And mine. And all that love. 

And it's too much. It's too much like...

There's a pain where my clavicle has been broken into dust, the sand pours into my wound and I wake to see a man forcing poison to Sherlock's lips. Then the walls blur and he's flicking my face and I'm holding back but then the sound of a howl reaches my ears and I'm scared, so damn scared, but it was him all along, which doesn't matter when I see him lying on the floor, baptised into death by his own blood and his gravestone is black because that's what he would have wanted but not really because Sherlock wouldn't give a shit about the decorations we bestowed on his corpse. Now the siren sounds and he's been shot, dying for real this time and only Sherlock bloody Holmes could fix this wreck of a marriage from a hospital bed because he won't shut up, he won't, but now there's a baby girl growing and Magnussen can't touch her because he's lying on the ground, a bullet laying waste to his mind palace and the helicopter thud thud thuds and there were helicopters in the dessert and they whipped you like a torture made to flay the skin from your bones but it's over John, all over now, because the plane is leaving and you're never going to see him.

Again.

And this car is so sleek, and Mary is so beautiful, and Molly cried when she heard and then went back to slicing up cadavers, carving out empty promises to herself and the the hearts of the dead as though they were her own. Greg went to the pub to find an answer for questions he didn't know he had while he held his head in his hands and United were winning but they always bloody win, well, maybe not so much anymore but who gives a shit because Sherlock's on a plane to god knows where with no return ticket. 

If I break down now, here, in this car, that's too much like giving in, and nothing like believing in his lies. Sherlock says six months but he can never come home, and I see young boys who never lasted six weeks while the sun beat down mercilessly and blackened the stumps where their legs used to be and turned their blood to ash. We carried them home in boxes draped with flags, buried them with salutes and gave them medals they couldn't take with them and they never gave a damn about it all either.

If Mary puts her hand on my knee I will pretend I don't imagine her fingers as talons, digging in like she's holding the butt of a pistol because she's a murderer, a god damned murderer, but then so are you but they called you a hero instead.

So do not scream, or shout, it's too alarming, and he is just a soldier you used to know, heading for a nightmare and a shroud stained red, white and blue.

And he won't be coming home. 

Not to you. 

Not ever. 

Again.


End file.
